


Perchance to Dream

by wtf_dk



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Belly Kink, Breeding, Creature Inside, Deep Roads (Dragon Age), Dream Sex, Drugged Sex, Fade Sex, Inflation, Mind Control, Mind Manipulation, Multiple Orgasms, Multiple Penetration, Other, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Possession, Possessive Sex, Sounding, Stomach Bulge, Stuffing, Tentacle Monsters, Tentacle Rape, Tentacles, extreme penetration, if you squint and make some inferences about what happens next
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-02
Updated: 2021-01-02
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:41:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28461828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wtf_dk/pseuds/wtf_dk
Summary: There are a lot of dangerous things in the Deep Roads, and it turns out the ones Cousland can see are not the ones he should be worrying about.Or: Cousland makes some new friends. Whether he thinks that's good depends on if you ask before or after his new friends make themselves at home.**********************************************************************************I did not tag for breath play or choking, because there is no breath play and there's never a point where Cousland actually can't breathe. That said, there's a point where hethinkshe can't, and he spends most of the story with things in his throat. So if choking is a nope for you, this story may hit the same button.Otherwise...can't swear I'm not missing a tag, so if you see one I should add, let me know.
Relationships: Male Cousland (Dragon Age)/Other(s), Male Warden (Dragon Age)/Other(s), Male Warden (Dragon Age)/Tentacle Creature, Male Warden (Dragon Age)/Tentacles
Comments: 4
Kudos: 27





	Perchance to Dream

**Author's Note:**

> I had a conversation with some friends today that started with the Seattle Space Needle and ended with, "Start every year with a tentacle bang." I'm pretty sure they didn't mean for me to take that as instructions, but here we are. Here's to 2021 not sucking as bad as 2020.

It starts with a dream that doesn't feel like a dream.

The Deep Roads provide plenty of fodder for nightmares, and Cousland has woken with his heart pounding more than once in the last weeks, but this one is different. For all it has the trappings of a nightmare, he's not afraid, or even wary. If anything, he's more at ease than he's been since before Howe's attack, warm with the sort of soul-deep comfort that only comes from being somewhere completely safe, with no concerns greater than what to have for breakfast in the morning

Which is strange, given that most of the dream involves being touched by a shadowy thing he can't see or fight. He can't even scream: his whole body is paralyzed by magic, absolutely immobile the way rope or manacles could never achieve. Everything about this should be terrifying, should have him struggling to get free or at least call for help.

And yet, he doesn't want to scream, or thrash, or try to throw off the magic that has him trapped. He's content to lie there as warm, slick tendrils slither across every inch of his skin, soothed rather than repulsed by the contact. They're as thorough as a cartographer exploring an unmapped mountain range, sliding around his arms and legs and torso but also between his fingers and through his hair and behind his balls. Sometimes the touch tickles, but more often than not, it's arousing, the tendrils dexterous as fingers with the wet warmth of a tongue as they caress him like a lover. His cock starts to harden, and once it does, the tendrils curl around it the same way they curl around his fingers, making him harder. The looseness of their coils and the sporadic nature of their touch make it the worst--or best--kind of torment. One tendril will stroke him for a moment before it moves aside for another that strokes him just as briefly and moves on in its turn, leaving his cock aching as he waits impatiently for another tendril to brush against it.

He rarely has to wait long. There are a lot of them, and while they don't hurt him, they move quickly, with a sense of urgency Cousland doesn't understand. The way they twist over and around each other reminds him of a ball of snakes he once saw, a massive tangle of serpentine bodies so focused on something at the center that he'd dared to walk within a few feet and stand watching for a while, puzzled and fascinated. The tendrils are warm rather than cool, and covered in an oily liquid rather than dry scales, but the way they move is nearly the same.

When they've crawled across every inch of his skin, leaving behind slick trails that don't have time to chill him before another tendril crosses the same place, their movements grow more frantic. They're still not hurting him, but they move faster than ever, exploring everywhere again, as if they might have overlooked something the first time. He doesn't know what they're searching for, but he wishes he did, so he could give it to them.

One tendril, slower and more controlled than most of the others, traces his lips repeatedly, top then bottom then top again, until finally the tip of it is just dragging back and forth across the seam between them. Cousland would open his mouth for it if he could, but the paralysis extends to every part of him, and all he can do is silently encourage it to push harder.

Maybe it can hear him, or maybe it gets there on its own, but a moment later, it wriggles past his lips. Like all his muscles, his jaw is relaxed, leaving his teeth slightly parted. The tendril slides between them, small enough it doesn't need to push them wider to fit through.

The tendril stops when it's only drawn an inch of its length past his lips, and for a brief while, it does nothing but use its tip to draw delicate lines over Cousland's tongue. He can't get more than a hint of its taste, too faint to identify, until more of the tendril works its way inside and wraps around his tongue. Now the taste fills his mouth, metal mixed with something he can't name, that reminds him of nothing so much as the way the air sometimes smells after a rainstorm. Like everything else, it should be unpleasant, but it isn't. Instead, Cousland is struck with the sudden, overwhelming need for more, and he hates that he can't move, can't suck on the tendril and swallow more than the few drops trickling down his throat.

More of the tendril slides into his mouth, enough that it can remain curled around his tongue while the tip goes deeper. He doesn't gag when it touches the back of his throat, or cough as it continues down, its passing marked by a line of warmth in his chest that doesn't provoke so much as a momentary panic. And why should it? The tendril is too thin to interfere with his breathing, and it isn't hurting him. The rhythmic contractions of the coils around his tongue remind him of slow, deep kisses, and that's more important than whatever the rest of the tendril is doing.

His cock is completely hard now and has been for a while, without any hope of real relief from the tendrils slithering over it. They pay no more attention to it than to any other part of his body, poking and prodding and thrashing frantically in their search, without stopping more than a moment anywhere.

Until enough moisture has gathered at the tip of his cock that a bead of it drips onto his stomach. Or rather, onto one of the tendrils currently slithering across his stomach.

He can't see, but it's a dream, and so he knows what's happening. The tendril coils back on itself, sliding through that drop of his seed the way a person might rub it between finger and thumb. Testing it, for Maker-knows-what.

Whatever the results of its test, the tendril raises itself up to touch the head of his cock. The first touch is light, but the second is rougher, almost painful, the tendril shoving its way under his foreskin to explore beneath it. Skin bulges as the tendril pulls more of itself in after, making the head of his cock look obscenely swollen and giving Cousland the firm grip around his cock that he's been wanting. Only around the head, but it's better than nothing. It's enough to have more of his seed dripping onto his belly.

The tendril loops around to prod gently at his slit, a curious touch that makes it all the more startling when, a moment later, it shoves itself in. It's almost too thick, and it has to wriggle around to push itself deeper. The stretch as it forces itself into his cock is more pleasure than pain, but the pain is undeniably there, and the fact that he can't even cry out makes it worse. He's still not afraid, though, or angry, or anything that would make sense. Mostly he's aroused, on the edge of coming, pleading silently for even one tendril to stroke his cock for a moment, just a moment, a moment is all he needs.

So much of his attention is on his cock that the other tendrils have disappeared from his awareness, even the one in his mouth. He barely notices when another tendril works its way between his lips, following the first one down his throat, but then another joins, and another, and then a dozen try to push into his mouth at the same time.

They tangle around each other, filling all the available space, and still there are more trying to fit themselves inside. His jaw strains and the corners of his mouth ache as tendrils try to slide between the ones already in his mouth. A few of the smallest are able to find gaps between the larger, and a few more find their way to his throat by wriggling into his nose, but soon there's no space large enough for even one more.

All of the ones in his mouth try to squeeze into his throat with the same single-minded determination, each apparently ignoring all of the others except to shove them aside. It's impossible to breathe, his nose and his throat both full of writhing tendrils, but there's no panic, no dizziness, no tightness in his chest. There's just the low warmth of the tendrils inside him, as if they can somehow provide the air he needs.

Most of the tendrils are either in his mouth or trying unsuccessfully to force their way in, but a few are still searching the rest of his body. One of those twists around his cock, coil after tight coil, squeezing hard enough Cousland can feel every undulation of the tendril inside him, the same way he can feel the ones filling his throat as they move around each other. Gratitude and relief crash over him, and then he comes, wishing he could thrust into the tendril around his cock, or tighten his throat to feel those tendrils even more, or anything to drag the pleasure out a little longer. But all he can do is lie passively, powerless to do even something so basic as swallow, and there's a different, unexpected pleasure in being so helpless.

 **Warm,** a voice says in his head. The word is so quiet and his thoughts so muddled, Cousland thinks at first it's his own thought. The tendrils are warm, after all, and he has at least a score of them filling him from his mouth to halfway down the inside of his chest.

 **So warm,** the voice says again. **Yes.**

This time, Cousland realizes that not only is it not his thought, it isn't even a single voice. All the voices just sound so much alike, a low roar like a distant waterfall, that they blur together, the edges between individual voices impossible to hear with a single word, and only barely discernible with more than that.

More words cascade through his head, accompanied by a sense of satisfaction. That last might really be his, given how hard he just came, but it doesn't feel quite right, and it intensifies with every word.

**Warm.**

**Good.**

**This one.**

**Yes.**

**Ours.**

He should probably be afraid, but he isn't. He can barely remember what fear felt like, here in this place where he's safe and treasured. A prized possession, to be closely guarded and lovingly tended.

 **Yes,** the voices say again, as if in response.

**Want you.**

**Keep you safe.**

**Keep you.**

There are other words beneath those, ones he can't quite make out. Part of him insists he should be afraid, and that part demands he pay attention to the words hiding behind the ones the creatures want him to hear. It's too much effort, though, and those promises too tempting. Besides, he's safe here. There's nothing to be afraid of, and if there was, the creatures whispering in his head would deal with it.

 **Ours always,** they promise, but then they caution, **Secret.**

Who would he tell, and what would he say? That creatures in a dream promised to keep him safe? Anyone who didn't already think Grey Wardens were crazy would after that. Even his companions would look at him sideways.

 _Secret,_ he agrees. _Yours._

There's a hiss of satisfaction, echoed among a hundred voices, a wash of sound that drowns out everything else until it ebbs and dies away.

 **Good,** the creatures say together, and this time, the word sounds like praise.

In the next moment, the paralysis releases him, giving him back full control of his body. The tendrils in his nose and throat don't disappear, but that doesn't seem to matter: he feels no urge to gag or cough, and somehow he's still getting enough air. Everything else is irrelevant, now that his hands are free.

He wraps one loosely around his throat and the other tightly around the tendril stroking his cock. It immediately wriggles out of his grip, but when he squeezes tighter, he can feel the smaller one running down the inside of the shaft. He can feel the ones in his throat, too, moving more slowly now. All the tendrils are calmer now, even the ones still trying to find a way into his mouth; their efforts feel less desperate and more impatient.

The tendril that was around his cock until a moment ago is between his legs now, tip rubbing the skin behind his balls before it continues back to slide between the cheeks of his ass. The only surprising thing about the touch is that it took until now for one of the tendrils to get there, though given how long it took them to find their way into his mouth, maybe it's not a surprise after all.

The susurrus that fills his head is irritated this time. **New,** the creatures say in sulky unison.

**Different.**

**Better.**

**Warm.**

And then, self-satisfied, **Ours now.**

Cousland is only half listening. The tendril between his legs has gone back and forth several times, pushing against his hole without exerting enough force to actually push inside. Under other circumstances, he would be gasping and whining in anticipation, but with his throat full, all he can do is shift restlessly, needing something that's so close and yet still out of reach.

He lay paralyzed and passive for so long, it takes a while for him to remember he isn't anymore, that he doesn't need to be able to ask for what he wants when he can simply show it.

The tendrils have been over every inch of his body at least three times, leaving his skin slippery. He runs a hand up and down one thigh, coating his fingers thoroughly, then reaches behind his balls to where the tendril is still rubbing over his hole. Two fingers slide in easily, and for a moment, he forgets what he was doing in favor of fucking himself. It's been months since he's had anything except his own hand for company, and this is usually too much effort when he doesn't have any of the toys he used to keep in a locked chest under his bed.

It doesn't feel like too much effort now. His fingers and half his hand are slick, and he can fuck himself with long, slow strokes, feeling his hole stretch as he pushes in and close as he pulls out. He pulls all the way out each time, wanting that first shock through his balls as his body's initial resistance gives way to tight heat. He's well and truly lost to the sensation, until the moment when he pulls out and the tendril pushes in, its presence a surprise even though it shouldn't be.

His surprise is fleeting, and it's quickly replaced by anticipation as the tendril works its way in. It moves slowly, squirming and fighting against his body's tightness, and the sensation is better than he could have imagined. He could continue to fuck himself, letting his fingers help the tendril along, but he strokes his cock instead, his back bowing as the tendril forces its way deeper an inch at a time. When the tendril in his cock begins to contract and expand in steady pulses, he comes again, squeezing his cock so he can feel the rhythm against his palm.

He lies there a while afterward, everything except his cock limp. The tendrils are moving again, more than they have since they spoke to him. The one in his cock withdraws and is replaced by four or five of the smallest tendrils, each only as big around as a small lock of hair. The feel of them sliding into him isn't the same as when it was the one large enough it had to work to get in. These tendrils are so thin, they can slither straight down, with no need to push or wriggle around. Warm as they are, it's an almost liquid sensation, more like a stream of oil than anything remotely solid.

The tendrils that were in his mouth--the ones that weren't able to make room for themselves in his throat--and the ones that couldn't even make it that far are now all twining around his legs. A few of the smaller ones are circling his hole, tracing the edge where his skin touches the tendril already inside, while the rest stroke his thighs and the cheeks of his ass. They're silent, no words whispering through his mind, but Cousland feels their anticipation, and their eagerness that borders on hunger as they wait and watch. Their emotions overflow into him, turning his own faint arousal into need again, never mind that he only just came.

It's so intense his hands are shaking when he reaches between his legs again, and his fingers slip away from his hole at first. He gets it right after what feels like hours, shoving his fingers in roughly, wanting the abrupt stretch and the accompanying burn.

Small tendrils push in right after, using his fingers and the larger tendril to help themselves along. More follow, writhing and twisting their way deeper, stretching his hole so the next ones can get through more easily. Faster than he would have thought possible, there are so many of the small tendrils fucking him that they can pull against each other, spreading him open for the rest.

The largest tendril he's seen is no more than half an inch in diameter, but it feels much larger when it's pushing into him alongside two more that are almost as thick. That feeling of safety remains, the absolute conviction that there's nothing for him to fear, but he can still wonder how much it will hurt when they all try to fuck his ass the way they all tried to fuck his mouth. There are too many of them to fit without doing real damage.

Except this is a dream. Does it matter what the limits of his body would be in the real world?

He doesn't get to find out, not at first. The small tendrils continue to hold him open, but no more try to join the ones already inside him. The first of those is thin enough he couldn't feel the tip moving deeper, but it did move, and now that he's paying attention to it again, he doesn't need to feel it to know exactly where it is. He can trace every sinuous curve on the skin above it, and when he does, he imagines he can feel the tendril moving under his fingers.

The three larger tendrils tangle around each other just inside his hole, a growing mass that presses against exactly the right place to make his hips jerk. His cock is as hard as it's been the whole time, and he begins to stroke it again, pausing occasionally to squeeze and feel the tendrils sliding over each other inside it. The fingers of his other hand trail over his stomach, marking the path of the tendril that's still working its way deeper.

Another tendril winds along his arm to his hand and weaves itself around his palm and between his fingers. It's a strange sensation at first, to know his hand is moving, to feel something stroking his cock, and yet for his hand to feel nothing but the tendril. It only takes a little while to get used to it, though, and then to wonder if stroking himself any other way will be second best from now on. His hand is slick and warm, tight when he wants it tight and loose when he wants it loose, as perfect as anything he's ever felt, and when the tendrils in his ass twist around again, he comes, throat working as he tries to shout and can't.

Afterward, he lets his hand drop from his cock to his stomach, spent in more ways than one. It's strange not to gasp and pant when he's sweating and trembling like this, but the tendrils in his throat don't allow for it. He doesn't feel the lack of air so much as the lack of a physical sensation he never thought much about, until it was missing.

The tendril around his hand slips free to wrap itself around his cock instead, which is still hard and still not over-sensitive the way it would be if this wasn't all a dream. Another reason to be glad this isn't real, and Cousland wants to laugh. He can't, but the creatures that spoke to him earlier make a sound like a rumbling purr, giving voice to the laughter for him.

For a while, he just lies there, as motionless as he was when the spell kept him paralyzed. All except his hands, which move lazily over his stomach, tracing and retracing the tendril he can't feel but knows is there. He's curious how much deeper it intends to go, but he's also content to wait, to let the tendrils stroke him and fill him however they want.

The creatures' whispers are a constant background noise by now, as comforting as the familiar sounds of home. Occasionally, a word or two catches his attention, the tone always smug. Most of the time, the words are simple echoes of what the creatures have already said to him, **ours** and **warm** and **keep you** , but once, he thinks he hears **use you** , and then, right after it, **breed you**.

A chill runs down his spine, quickly overwhelmed by the tendrils' warmth. The creatures purr to him again, soothing away his sudden fear with whispered assurances.

**Ours.**

**Safe.**

**Want you.**

**Protect you.**

Then, all together in a single voice, possessive and triumphant, **_OURS._**

Absolutely nothing about that should reassure him, but he finds himself relaxing anyway. His fear dissipates, and he's once again somewhere comfortable and familiar, surrounded by those who love him, who want to keep him safe.

 **Keep you,** the creatures murmur in agreement.

He ignores the part of himself pointing out those aren't the same and concentrates instead on finding the tendril he was following before. It's finally stopped, only a little further on from where it was, and now it's coiling itself into a ball. When his fingers rest on the skin directly over it, he can feel its eagerness, though he can't tell what it's eager for. All he can tell is that it needs something urgently, something almost within its reach, something that's more important to it than anything else in the world, waking or dreaming.

 _What do you need?_ he asks it. _Just tell me, and I'll get it for you._

 **Need you,** the creatures answer. They sound pleased.

As answers go, that one isn't very helpful. _What do you need me to do?_

**Need you.**

**Keep you.**

**Ours always.**

Hoping for a better answer, Cousland lays his palm flat on his stomach, right above where the tendril has made part of itself into a ball. _Tell me what you need._

Silence, except for the background hum of the creatures' voices. He can still feel the tendril's urgency, rising to a fever pitch even though it isn't moving anywhere, but there's nothing else he can understand. All he can feel from it is raw need, so intense that a little of it bleeds into him, his body translating it into lust. The connection is tenuous at best, the shared sensation nearly lost under his own arousal, but he holds tight to it anyway, transfixed by the idea of sharing something so intimate, until the urgency dies away abruptly.

Nothing has changed as far as Cousland can tell, but the tendril no longer radiates need, and without anything so intense to bridge the gap between them, the connection is gone. He presses his hand down against his stomach as hard as he can, trying to get closer, and he's relieved when it stirs. Not enough for him to feel it, but enough that he can sense it the way he did before.

Then he _can_ feel it, because the tendril is nudging his hand with enough force to make the muscle between it and his palm jump. Startled, he lifts his hand just as the tendril does it again, harder, and he can actually see the outline of it. It's a round bulge under his skin, dense as a taut muscle when he touches it, impossible and obscene and arousing. He strokes it as best he can, and as he does, its mind brushes against his.

The contact is brief this time, only long enough for him to get a sense of contentment from it, and a whispered, satisfied, **Warm.**

It doesn't retreat from his touch when it retreats from his mind, and he pets it idly with one hand while he spreads the other out to cover as much of his stomach as possible. His sense of the tendril's body inside his own is still there, each curve a thin line of light under his splayed hand. He feels relaxed--what he would call sleepy if he wasn't already asleep--and disinclined to worry about what has happened or what might happen next.

That doesn't change when the tendrils knotted just inside his hole begin to untangle themselves and move deeper. His attention sharpens, but he remains caught in the now, passively waiting to find out what they intend to do. He's not hoping, not expecting, and certainly not planning. They'll do what they want to him, and whatever it is, it will be good, because he's safe here. They promised to keep him safe.

Without the need to worry and plan to distract him, he's free to fixate on the thicker tendrils moving inside him. They're following the first one, but unlike that one, he doesn't need any special sense to know where they are. The three together are thick enough he can feel them writhing, even occasionally see them moving under his skin or feel them bump against his palm or fingers.

He can sense them the same way he could sense the first tendril, too, but it's the physical sensations that hold his attention. As the tendrils move, it's never just one part of them: all three move together, and every inch of their bodies move at the same time, in complementary directions to push the tendrils deeper into him. They're climbing each other, or pulling each other along, or something halfway in between that's nevertheless cooperative rather than competitive.

The tendrils that are stretching his hole flex and pull him open wider, allowing another tendril to slither between them. It's no larger than the other three, and none of them are especially large, but together they would make him gasp if his throat wasn't stuffed full. He wants to be that full everywhere, stretched to the absolute limit of what he can take. Right now, he's nowhere near it, and he's desperate for anything that gets him the slightest bit closer.

Under his hand, the three intertwined tendrils press close enough for Cousland to feel their warmth, and he rubs his skin over the shifting curves of their bodies.

Something he should have thought of before occurs to him. _Why do you keep saying I'm warm?_ he thinks at them. _You're warmer than I am._

 **Warm,** they insist, and he knows they're talking about him rather than themselves. **Not...**

There's a pause like the creatures are thinking, and the next word is really half a dozen words overlaying each other, as if for once the creatures aren't in agreement as to which is right.

**Not cold.**

**Not hostile.**

**Not claimed.**

**Not full.**

**Not deaf.**

**Not barren.**

That last makes his skin prickle, but he forgets about it as the creatures show him a flood of images. Darkspawn mostly, but also dwarves, as well as a number of animals. Some of the animals are ones he's seen and some are ones he hasn't, but all are the sorts of horrifying monstrosities only the Deep Roads could produce.

 **Warm,** the creatures repeat. **Ours.**

They purr at him for emphasis, and the three tendrils under his hand nudge at him until he resumes petting them. It's strange to watch his skin distort under the pressure from below it, but it's not unsettling, and the longer he watches, the more it arouses him. They're deeper inside him than any lover could ever be, and all of them together will be far thicker than the thickest cock, and they'll fill him the way he can never be filled outside of dreams.

 **Full,** they promise. **Full with us.**

More tendrils are already inside him, twisting and wriggling and pushing themselves deeper. The three under his hand move on, but others rub against his palm on the way by, creating momentary bulges he can see and feel. Even when the tendrils don't arch up at all, he's aware of them under his skin. The thin line of that first tendril is being gradually redrawn, brighter and heavier with each new tendril that follows it. He loses track of individuals eventually, the lines blurring together the more tendrils there are and the deeper they get, loops crossing and recrossing until he can only sense them as a single mass.

It's a mass with weight, thick and heavy and warm where it rests inside him. The heat that felt so gentle when there were only a few tendrils has him sweating by the time there are a dozen, and they don't stop there. The skin of his stomach becomes hot to the touch, as hot as if he lay under a summer sun for an entire afternoon.

Hot, and also tight, though that has more to do with the number of tendrils that have burrowed inside him. His stomach stays mostly flat for a while, distorted only by the knot of the first tendril still pressing itself into his hand and by fleeting impressions of others, but there are too many of them for that to last.

The change is so gradual he doesn't notice it immediately, his hand shifting unconsciously to accommodate the swelling beneath it, until he realizes his fingers are curving down rather than splayed flat, and his palm rests on top of a mound. Not a large one, to be sure, but still a distinct mound, all the more startling given he's on his back. From this position, his stomach usually curves inward, his hipbones standing in stark relief; now he has to prod the mound to find even the top of the bones. As soon as he moves his fingers, they disappear again, lost as the mound spreads back out into the space.

He cups both hands around the curve of his belly, pressing in until he can feel the tendrils moving. There are so many, their movements both fluid and frantic, he hasn't a hope of telling whether the one he's touching in any given moment is the same one he's touching in the next. Impressions appear and disappear, clearer now his skin is stretched taut, and more frequent now there are so many tendrils filling him.

However full he feels, they show no sign of stopping, or even slowing. There are still dozens draped over his legs, and many of the ones inside him are still in motion, drawing more of their bodies into his with every passing breath. When he first noticed the mound, his cupped hands could cover all of it with his fingers touching, but it's already expanded enough to leave a hair-thin gap between his fingertips.

The only warning he gets is a tightening in his balls, and then he's coming, though he hadn't even realized he was close, hadn't noticed the ache in his cock or the heat in his belly that had nothing to do with the tendrils filling it. It's shocking in both its suddenness and its intensity: spasms wrack his whole body in waves that seem to grow stronger rather than weaker, each one squeezing his muscles tight around the tendrils and making him feel even fuller than he is, making him come that much harder.

By the time it's over, his fingertips are more than a hair's breadth apart. The swelling is otherwise imperceptible, the difference not yet enough to be visible without something so clear to measure against, but that widening gap tells him the tendrils aren't finished.

He slides his hands closer together so his fingertips are once again touching, then watches, fascinated, as his stomach continues to swell, pushing them back apart. His ass is already stretched so wide someone could easily slip a hand through if there weren't tendrils in the way, and he wonders again, still without fear, when it will start to hurt. Soon, at this rate.

 **No pain,** the creatures promise.

**Only good.**

**Only us.**

He doesn't believe them that it won't hurt--what could these creatures know about the limits of a human body?--but it doesn't bother him, either. At least they won't hurt him deliberately. Beyond that, it will hurt when it hurts, and there's nothing he can do about it.

There's enough space between the tips of his fingers that he can no longer easily tell how fast his stomach is growing, so he slides them closer to each other again. His belly has swollen so much it doesn't all fit within his cupped hands, even with his fingers spread as far as he can. He's not sure he could find his hipbones at all, not anymore, and that pleases him.

The creatures purr again, equally pleased, and as he watches his fingertips drift apart, whispers fill his mind. Since they don't seem to be talking to him, he lets the words wash over him. He hears, he understands, but most of his attention is on his stomach and the shifting shapes beneath his skin.

 **More,** the creatures whisper to each other.

**Full.**

**Not yet.**

**More.**

**Yes.**

_More,_ he thinks. _Yes._

He rubs circles on his stomach with both hands, pressing firmly enough to feel the tendrils inside. When they pass by close enough for him to feel their bodies, he can feel their emotions, too, brief flashes before they sink back into the mass of the others. Some brush against him only in passing as they rush on, full of the same driving need he felt in the first tendril. Others push affectionately against him, eager but controlled, pleased by his touch even as their focus remains on something else. Still others move languidly, rolling under his hand repeatedly, content and wanting only to be petted. And a few don't move at all, pushed against his hand by the others' movement rather than seeking out contact. Those tendrils are beyond content; they're smug and sated as a spoiled lapdog after a good meal, uninterested in anything except savoring that feeling of fullness.

Something he understands perfectly, except he isn't content, not yet. He hopes to be, though. He hopes to be soon.

 **Soon,** the creatures agree, and he can feel an excitement to match his own.

**More.**

**All.**

**Only us.**

**More.**

**Full with us.**

**More.**

**_Ours._ **

There's a vicious hiss on the last word, accompanied by a sense of snapping teeth. A threat rather than an attack, but a threat made by someone willing and able to carry through on it if necessary.

Silence. Stillness, too, all the tendrils suddenly motionless. Then...

 **Ours,** all the creatures say as one. Some angry, some satisfied, some cowed, most simply agreeable, but they all say it.

Cousland's shoulders relax, tension he hadn't been aware of until it eased, but some of his fear remains. It stirs his sleeping instincts, and they begin to notice how much danger he's in. As they do, disgust surges up at the realization of how thoroughly these creatures have invaded his body. He tries to draw a breath and can't, tries to shout and can't, tries to yank them out and can't.

Paralysis takes hold again, pinning him in place as thoroughly as it did when the dream first started. It doesn't stop his throat from spasming around the tendrils filling it, but he can't cough or gag any more than he can breathe.

The creatures fill his head with a wordless flood of emotion, soothing him with the feeling that he's somewhere familiar, somewhere he's longed to be and has finally found. It undercuts the fear and disgust but doesn't wipe them away, not completely.

**Safe.**

It's as if by giving the feeling a name, the creatures have also given it more power: the fear retreats a little further. He's somewhere that isn't just familiar, it's safe. This place is safe. He is safe.

**Protect you.**

He's safe, and nothing will change that. They'll protect him from anything that might try to hurt him.

**Want you.**

He's safe, and he's protected, and he's wanted. He's home, and this time, no one will take it away.

 **Home?** the creatures repeat, as if trying out a new word.

A hundred memories flash in front of his mind's eye, too fast for him to truly remember any of them. All he gets is a feeling, the feeling of finally returning to the place where he belongs.

 **Home,** the creatures say again, this time with certainty. **Us.**

He knows he's part of that us, senses it the same way he senses the tendrils inside him. It's no longer them and him, linked but still separate; he's part of them now.

**Keep you.**

Fear is a distant memory, and disgust isn't even that. He can't imagine ever being disgusted by his swollen stomach or the tendrils in his throat, the ones that are breathing for him again. How can he be part of them unless they fill him? And if they're inside him, then he'll carry them with him everywhere.

**Everywhere.**

**Yes.**

**Home.**

**Ours.**

**Us.**

The paralysis has disappeared again, leaving him free to put one hand on his stomach and the other around his throat. It's more difficult to sense the ones in his throat, the heavy tissue of his windpipe blocking them the way muscle and skin don't, but he can catch hints. They're pleased about something, and hungry, but not frantic the way so many of the others are.

At least he can feel them clearly without that extra sense. They fill his throat tightly, crammed into a space that can't stretch much, and they twist around each other constantly. It emphasizes how far they've gone, something he hadn't noticed until now, distracted as he'd been by the tendrils he could see and touch.

He runs a slow hand down his throat, which is almost as warm as the skin of his stomach. The heat doesn't stop at the base of his neck, so he keeps going, even though the bones of his ribcage block his ability to sense the tendrils, or feel their heat with his hand. He can feel their warmth from the inside, and he follows that until it merges with the greater heat of his swollen belly.

That makes him frown. He wants to know where they stop and try to measure how much of them he's taken in, but no matter how many times he tries, or how carefully he searches, he can't find where the tendrils in his throat stop. There are too many in his stomach, and the heat of them radiates outward, confusing all of his senses. It's disappointing, not knowing how much of him they've filled, but there isn't much he can do about it.

After a while, he starts to wonder if they've gone so far they've reached the other tendrils, and that's why he can't find where one group ends and the other begins. If they can breathe for him, maybe they can do more than that and he doesn't need lungs or heart or stomach. They could take away all that, empty him out and make more room for themselves inside him.

He likes the idea of them filling him so completely, and he can tell from the purr of approval that the creatures do, too.

**Full with us.**

**Only us.**

**All of us.**

_Yes,_ he replies, their eagerness starting to burn in his blood. _All of you. All of us._

The words hardly need emphasis, but he cups his stomach pointedly anyway. As huge as it seems, he knows it can take at least twice again as much, and he wants that the way he's never wanted anything in his life. He wants to see it grow until the skin aches and there's as little space in his belly as there is in his throat, and then he wants them to force more into him anyway. He wants to be nothing except a vessel for them, all other parts of him burned away so there's more room for the creatures.

**Soon.**

**_Yes._ **

He thinks the last word with them, a perfect harmony of their voices and his that runs through him like lust, like he's just come, or is about to come.

His body hangs on that edge while more tendrils push into him and his stomach swells under his hand. A hand that's constantly in motion, stroking and petting and measuring how much bigger he's gotten since the last time he checked. His other hand wanders more, stroking his throat over the warmth of the other tendrils before heading downward.

Both hands cup his belly for a moment, spanning it as best they can. In his head, the creatures are so smug they're gloating, and he feels a glow of pride at what he's taken so far, and at knowing he can take more. He'll take all of them, no matter how much it hurts, just to see his stomach grow huge with them. And when they're all inside him, he'll be safe and loved forever.

**Always ours.**

He's still tense like he's about to come, except he's stuck there: he doesn't come, and he doesn't fall back from that edge. It's a torment he can enjoy for a while, but the more time passes, the more desperate he gets, until even the tendrils pressing up against his skin aren't enough to hold his attention. He needs to come, and he's every bit as frantic as the tendrils wriggling deeper into him.

One tendril is stroking his cock with a few loose coils, a gentle caress that's nowhere near enough, but when he wraps a firm hand around the tendril and his cock together, it catches on quickly. It spirals up his cock so its coils circle the entire length, and then it begins to squeeze rhythmically. He has one moment to think that it's like fucking the tightest, wettest cunt he's ever known, and then he's coming, back arching so far it jostles the tendrils fucking his ass, jerking them against his hole and making it burn.

The tendril stroking his cock doesn't stop when his muscles go limp in the aftermath and he collapses back. In the real world, the touch would probably be too much right now, but this isn't the real world, and so what he feels is a new spark of arousal. A spark that catches faster than it has any right doing, sooner than his body should ever be able to recover.

He shifts restlessly, unable to keep still when he's just come so hard and yet he's also on the verge of coming again. The lassitude and satisfaction of one would have him drift motionless in a contented haze, while the urgency and hunger of the second insist he needs to do something, anything, whatever's necessary to finish.

The creatures give a soothing hum. It's wordless, but the emotion behind it is so clear, his mind supplies words for them. _We'll care for you,_ they're telling him. _Let us care for you._

 **Care,** the creatures repeat, and again they sound like they're trying out a new word.

The thought of doing nothing, of lying back and letting himself be pleasured, is deeply appealing to the selfish part of him, but that's not a part of himself he's used to letting make his decisions, and he hesitates.

**Want you.**

**Need you.**

**Care for you.**

Along with the words, they give him a blurry image of himself: mouth and ass stretched wide by tendrils, and belly large enough now he'd never be able to hide it, not even under the loosest clothes. The image is followed by a sense of gratitude so intense, he's momentarily grateful to himself, until the creatures' feelings recede from his mind.

He takes all of those pieces and translates them to, _You're giving us what we want, so let us give you what you want._

It's a difficult argument to counter, especially when he doesn't want to. He wants to surrender this, the way he's surrendered everything else to them.

**Ours.**

**Care for you.**

The tendril around his cock begins to squeeze again, the same steady rhythm that makes him think of being balls-deep inside someone while they come.

**Yes?**

He can't even remember what they're talking about, but he knows what answer the creatures want him to give. _Yes._

 **Good.** They're pleased with him, but he wants them to be proud of him. Fortunately, he knows what he needs to do to earn that.

 _More?_ he begs.

**Soon.**

**Ours.**

**Full with us.**

The tendrils in his cock begin to squirm, and he realizes for the first time that when they slid into him, they didn't stop at the base of his cock. He's not sure how far they've gone, just that it's deep. They're deep, so deep inside him, filling him in places he hadn't even considered but now wants desperately to be as full as every other part of him.

He reaches down to cup one hand around his balls, and yes. _Yes._ At least one tendril is there, moving under skin so delicate he can feel every shift and twitch as it pulls its body into him one slow inch at a time. When he curls his hand more firmly around his balls, he can sense the tendrils well enough to know that what he first took to be multiple coils of one are actually three separate individuals.

His sense of them is so clear, he can almost see each of them writhing and twisting, their outlines occasionally visible against the skin. His balls don't seem to have swollen the way his stomach has, but they still feel heavier. Warmer, too, though these tendrils are so thin, the difference is only noticeable once he thinks to pay attention to it.

Another tendril pushes against his hole, trying to use the tendrils already inside him to help it along. It's larger than most, and with so many already fucking him, it can't simply slide in the way most have. It has to struggle to get through, forcing his hole to open a little wider to make room, something that hadn't seemed possibly a moment ago. The stretch burns but doesn't--quite--hurt.

A question occurs to him, and as soon as it has, he has to know the answer. He releases his balls and reaches further back to explore the tendrils fucking him. They weave around his fingers, unintentionally thwarting him until he brings his hand all the way down to where it touches the edge of his hole. From there, he can wrap his hand around all of the tendrils fucking him, so he can tell how wide they've stretched him.

Or rather, he can try to wrap his hand around all of them. Even without their interference, he can't get his thumb and middle finger to meet. He can't even get close before the tendrils begin to thrash in protest at his grip and he has to let go.

It's enough to give him an idea of how much they've stretched him, and that idea is incredible. They're well past the point where someone could squeeze their hand into him; no squeezing would be required now. His hole is stretched as obscenely as his stomach, and the knowledge makes his balls draw up like he's about to come. Then the tendril around his cock squeezes tightly enough for him to feel the ones inside it, and he is coming, shuddering and clenching around all the tendrils that are filling him.

It ends and it doesn't, the same as last time: the blinding pleasure fades, but not completely. He feels as though it would take very little to bring it back, and maybe, if he does it right, it wouldn't fade again. He could stay there forever, unaware of anything except the tendrils and the feel of them forcing his body to make room for them.

He curls his hand around his balls again, and they feel even heavier than they did before. Under his skin, the tendrils have wrapped themselves around his balls, covering them completely in a gesture both protective and possessive. When he brushes a thumb across them, all he can hear is a gleeful chorus of **ours, ours, ours.**

They don't move as much as the other tendrils, just little shifts to nudge at his hand occasionally, but the skin around them is so thin, he feels it every time. He finds himself stroking them just to make them move, wanting to feel them that tiny bit more clearly. He wants the reminder of them, and of how far inside him the tendrils have already reached.

His other hand pets his stomach and the tendrils filling it. It's large enough now that if he stood, he wouldn't be able to see his toes. Also large enough he has to reach around it rather than over in order to keep a hand around his balls, and the angle is awkward. He barely notices and definitely doesn't care. Watching his stomach swell and feeling his balls grow heavier are the only things that matter.

One of the larger tendrils wriggles around, shoving itself up so it's visible under his skin, and not just a small segment. It starts with the tip making a bulge in his stomach, but then more and more of its length appears, like it's surfacing from under water. Loop after loop distorts the mostly-smooth curve of his belly, without sinking back down almost immediately.

He touches the tip with a gentle finger, then strokes down its body, following it even once it disappears over the hill his stomach has become. The other end presses up against his skin somewhere near where he used to be able to find his right hipbone. When he reaches the end of the tendril, he starts back up, retracing its body inch by inch. Measuring it precisely is difficult, but it's several feet long at least, all of it inside him.

All of it.

Inside him.

There's an entire creature inside him.

 **Home,** the creatures say, and he understands that they mean him. He's their home. **Ours always.**

He thinks about home, about being safe and protected and loved forever.

He thinks about how many tendrils there are, about how many might already be all the way inside and how many haven't even started.

He thinks about how big his stomach is now, and he tries to guess how big it would have to be to hold all of them.

 _All of you?_ he asks. His balls are already tightening in anticipation of the answer.

 **All,** they assure him. **Full with us.**

 _Please,_ is all he can think. _Please now._

**Soon.**

**Yes.**

**Full.**

Another hazy, distorted image appears in his mind, showing him again how he looks. His belly looks even more swollen in the image than it does from his angle, and as he watches, it swells further, showing him what he'll look like when they're done. The larger his stomach gets in the image, the more avidly he watches, his hand stroking the real thing as if he can make it grow at the same rate. He can feel another climax building, slowly this time, spreading through him the way the tendrils have.

About the time the image of him has grown too huge to walk, he comes. There's no sudden, overwhelming surge, just a rush that grows stronger until it carries him over the edge and doesn't let him fall back down. He hangs suspended there for an eternity, and he gives himself over to it completely.

He gives himself over to _them_ completely, and they're happy to take him.

They take him and fill him and burn away everything they don't need so they can fill him with more of themselves. The tendrils in his throat disappear one by one, sliding deeper into his body to vanish in the mass of the others. After his throat is empty, he forgets to start breathing again for a while, but he finds it doesn't matter, so he forgets that breathing was ever something he had to do.

The tendrils in his cock finish next, pulling the rest of their bodies down into his balls. They coil tightly there, too small for the length he watched--and felt--wriggle through his cock. The weight is right, though: his balls feel so heavy he thinks it might hurt to walk.

Not that walking is a problem by the time they're done with him. There are so many more tendrils filling his ass, they take far longer to finish than the others, but they fill him beyond anything he could have hoped for. His stomach swells and swells, showing him how wrong he'd been when he thought it huge before. If it was obscene before, it becomes grotesque and then swells beyond even that, until he's too lost in that unending climax to know anything except that he wants more.

Everything is heat and writhing tendrils, his skin stretched impossibly far to hold them, his body hollowed out to make room. The creatures' voices in his head are alternately possessive and excited, an excitement that grows with his stomach to become more like ecstasy, a howling chorus of **YES** and **OURS** , with him at the center, always the center. He's the only thing they want or need, and if they tore him apart in their frenzy, he wouldn't care.

But eventually, that frenzy begins to abate, and with it, the mass swelling his stomach. It shrinks the way it grew, too slowly for him to see the change moment to moment except by measuring his stomach's proportions with his hands. He's vaguely disappointed, but he's also come more times than he can count, and he can still hear the creatures murmuring to him. As the swelling dies down, the shadows surrounding him seem to rock him gently back and forth, and mostly what he feels is content.

Still, he puts a hand to his stomach when it's flat again and feels a pang at the loss. His body suddenly feels empty, and very lonely.

 **Ours always,** the creatures remind him.

They stir, and he realizes that they're no longer swelling his stomach because now they're everywhere: in his blood, under his skin, wrapped around each strand of hair and woven into every muscle. They're part of him, and he's part of them, and together, they're safe.

**Us.**

**Home.**

###

Cousland wakes with a jolt so violent he's halfway to his feet before his eyes are open. His unsheathed sword is in his hand, and the primitive part of his mind is screaming like the archdemon is standing in front of him.

Except the only person he can see is Leliana, who's staring at him in alarm. Her mouth is already open to call out and wake the others to face whatever danger sent him leaping to his feet, but he gives her a short headshake.

"Nightmare," he says, softly enough to not wake the others. "Sorry."

Her expression softens in sympathy, and he gives her a one-shoulder shrug and a crooked smile. Nightmares are unavoidable these days.

He can't even remember the details of this one anymore, and his heart is slowing back to normal as he sits down on his bedroll and sheathes his sword. If Leliana is on watch, then he still has hours left for sleep, and he knows to take advantage of that opportunity while he has it.

As loudly as his instincts were screaming when he woke, he expects it to take at least a little while to go back to sleep, but he starts to drift as soon as he closes his eyes. Relieved not to be left tossing and turning, he settles himself more comfortably. Under his bedroll, where no one can see, he tugs up the hem of his shirt so he can rest a hand on his bare stomach. The contact is weirdly comforting, but when he tries to think about why, he's too sleepy to follow a thought from one moment to the next, so he gives up. He can worry about it tomorrow.

Three-quarters asleep and fading fast, he strokes his stomach, wishing it was distended the way it should be, his skin stretched tight over it.

**Soon.**

**Full with us.**

**Yes.**

Reassured, he squeezes his stomach gently and goes to sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> For the record, this story was not supposed to be a story. It was supposed to be the first 1,000 words of another story, one that was supposed to be no more thant 5,000 words. I might have missed that goal by a little bit.
> 
> I'll probably write the rest of it as a separate story at some point, but for now, I'm hoping this is enough to get the plot bunny out of my head and let me work on what I'm supposed to be working on.


End file.
